


Iron

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Periodic Tales [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:41:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: FE 26 55.845The most common metal on earth, iron is a Group 8 element that is reactive to oxygen and water. Wrought iron has been made for thousands of years by smelting ore; cast iron needs blast furnace heat to purify the metal before it can be cast into moulds for shaping to suit industrial uses. As a result of this ability to take on new forms as needed, iron is the most widely used of all the metals, accounting for 95% of worldwide metal production. It may be common, but that doesn't mean Sherlock isn't very interested in it.





	1. Chapter 1

 

When the door opened, Esther Cohen looked up, giving what she hoped would be seen as an encouraging smile. But Sherlock made no eye contact, so she couldn't be sure he saw it. The seventeen year old stood rather awkwardly just over the threshold looking down at the floor, as if uncertain whether to come any further.

"Come in and have a seat, Sherlock. Thank you for coming."

Hesitantly, he approached the chair that was opposite hers. Then he stood looking at it, somewhat suspiciously. Both chairs were simple, modern, and brightly patterned, as if to belie their therapeutic purpose. This was a therapy room at the north London Priory, and today was the first time that Sherlock had been willing to enter it. Yesterday he had spoken for the first time since coming to the clinic, and Esther was determined not to let him slip back into silence.

That said, she didn't want to talk _at_ him, but rather _with_ him. And that would need some patience. So, she waited as he considered the chair. After a pause of nearly half a minute of silent staring, he shifted the chair so that it was not directly opposite hers, but rather pulled further back and turned at an angle, facing more toward the window. Then he slowly lowered himself into the seat.

 _So, some considerable anxiety about this turning into a confrontation._ Esther also realised he was making a very obvious statement about his reluctance to be there. Or perhaps it was his way of exercising some control? In either case, she didn't mind. To reassure him, she said, "Whatever makes you comfortable."

"What makes you think I could ever be comfortable here?" He was looking out the second floor window at the woods surrounding the North London clinic. The trees were now in full leaf and it was a glorious May spring day.

She was still surprised by the baritone. Apart from yesterday, the last time she'd really spoken with him, almost a year ago, his voice was still breaking, caught between boy and man. She took advantage of the fact that he wasn't looking at her to really look at him. That change was now mirrored in the body, too. He was no longer the child, but not quite the fully fledged young man- all angles- cheekbones and jaw taking a shape that would make him striking as an adult. He'd added at least an inch more in height and was starting to fill out, too. The past six weeks of drug detox and enforced feeding were beginning to show the benefits. _Not that he would see it that way._ She decided a peace-offering was necessary.

"What would make you more comfortable?" It was as good a place to start as any.

"Everything in this place is horrid. It's disgusting- the disinfectant in every room is so strong that it makes me nauseous. Sound? Well, maybe if they didn't use institutional fluorescent strip lighting, my head wouldn't be filled with incessant buzzing. And when it comes to sight…" He gestured to the wall mural behind Esther, "… the décor is childish and offensive- a bit like the people here.

This had been delivered in a rapid fire, don't-pause-for-breath cadence, and he still wouldn't look at her "What do you mean by that comment about the people? Are you talking about the patients or the carers?"

He snorted. "The idea of calling them 'carers'?- it's a joke. They are _paid_ to look after inmates in a prison. It's impossible to feel _comfortable_ in a prison. The only thing that would make it bearable is for you to open this door and say I am free to leave the clinic forever."

"I wish it were that easy, but we both know it isn't." She tried to make it sound sympathetic. Best to get started straight away on helping him see that the solution lay in setting achievable goals, rather than getting stuck in negative thinking. "So what do you think is a realistic alternative?"

He sighed, and turned his gaze away from the window and back to the floor. "Tell me what I have to say and promise to do to convince you, the other doctors and my brother that I am able to leave."

"It isn't about what you say or promise to do in the future. If it were that simple, then most people in here wouldn't be here. They would have talked their way out."

"So, this isn't the…talking thing? You've decided to go straight to ECT then?"

That shocked her. Sherlock had been given electro-convulsive therapy when he was ten and suffering from a depression that bordered on catatonia*. Before her time- she would not have approved of its use in a child on the Spectrum.

"No, of course not. That's a rather outdated approach used for acute depression. Do you feel acutely depressed?"

He shook his head, and then gave a wry smirk. "Not yet, but if this carries on for much longer, who knows? Anyway, isn't that what the antidepressants are for?"

"Actually, no. They are designed to help you with the anxiety. You aren't going to deny that you are anxious?"

That earned her the first direct look from him- and it was an accusatory glare. "Who is responsible for that, I wonder?"

"That's what we are here to talk about. How what you think creates the anxiety that leads you to do what you do, and how changing your thinking into something more positive can lead to being more in control of what you do. It's called cognitive behaviour therapy, by the way, not the "talking thing".

He had already looked away from her, letting his facial expression show that he was more than a little bored.

She tried again. "Therapy is designed to help you overcome negative thoughts- the things that make you anxious. I am here to help you get better. That shouldn't make you feel anxious. I'm on your side, Sherlock."

"If you were, then you'd tell me what you want to hear, how you want me to act, and then I can get out."

She smiled again. "It's not like that. If I told you what I expected to hear, then you'd tell it to me. And if I told you how to behave you'd even act it out perfectly _. I know you_. You are a consummate actor- it's what earned you the label of high functioning. So, we won't waste time playing that game."

Sherlock scowled, crossing his arms in front of his chest and slouching even more in the chair . "This is all pointless; you've decided along with my brother that I am never going to be allowed out."

He was still so volatile, going from petulance to anger and then onto despair in a few moments. Esther knew she had to let him release some of the pent-up energy or risk either a meltdown or a retreat back into the silence of depression. "No, I didn't say that. In fact, I've just said the opposite. The therapy is about helping you think differently about your behaviour, so you can control it better, in a way that allows you to be out there instead of in here."

He snapped back, "I _am_ in control of my behaviour. You are making so many assumptions in that statement, nearly all of which are profoundly wrong…" He broke off, stood up abruptly and walked over to the window, putting a hand flat against the glass, as if using the sensation to ground himself.

"Then tell me what I am getting wrong, and why. Unless you explain what you are thinking, then I can't begin to understand or help you see things differently."

He didn't respond.

"Try, Sherlock; it's important."

There was no answer. In fact, his whole demeanour had changed to a sort of vacant presence, there in body but not in spirit. It was like he'd taken his mind off-line and out of the room. It was unnerving.

Esther decided that it was time to use the same stimulus she had used the very first time she had spoken to him, when he was eleven*. She knew she had to keep him intellectually curious, or he would shut down on her.

"I have something for you." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a lump of metal. She tossed it, shouting " _Catch!_ "

Startled out of his reverie, Sherlock barely reacted in time, grabbed but missed as it landed on the window sill with a bounce and series of clanks. He picked it up and looked at it, puzzled. Turning the irregular piece of metal over in his long fingers, he brought it closer to his face, so he could scrutinise it more carefully. He held it up to the window, seeking out more light so he could really look at it.

"Know what it is?"

He was weighing the piece in his hand, rubbing his finger over it to get a sense of the density and texture. Then he tapped it against the metal of the window latch, listening intently to the sound it made. She was slightly startled when Sherlock first licked it, and then brought it up under his nose and sniffed.

"I'd need a magnet to be sure, but I think it's iron."

She smiled. "Yes, but not just _any_ old iron. It's direct reduced iron."

"That explains the taste and scent of rust." He started to smirk, then a chuckle escaped. "Doctor Cohen. I underestimated your knowledge of chemistry. RDI iron- sponge iron- can be made into steel without the high temperatures needed in a blast furnace, which just happens to be fuelled by a form of coal called _coke_. Very droll."

"Sherlock, you are like that piece of metal. You don't need coke – or cocaine- to manufacture steel or cast yourself into whatever shape you want. Your beliefs about why you are here are like that lump of iron. You can make anything you want out of them. You just have to try."

The smile on his face faded. He put the lump of iron in his pocket. Heaving a sigh, he murmured as he looked out of the window, "That sounds like you are asking for an explanation."

"Yes, that is exactly what I am asking for. You are too intelligent to have simply fallen into this by mistake. So, tell me why."

He shook his head. "Too much. Too many things. It's hard to know where to begin."

She decided that a direct approach would be best- go to the place that he rarely wanted to talk about. "Tell me what you _feel_ right now."

She saw him close his eyes, and take a deep breath.

"Anger doesn't even begin to define it. Incandescent rage might just…" He stopped. "A bit like a blast furnace."

"What are you angry about?"

He spun around and gestured wildly at the room, and then pointed at her. "This place, you, the others. My brother. You _all_ assume you know what is best for me." His voice was almost shaking from the effort of controlling himself; his breath was ragged and almost gasping. "You're so _wrong!_ You have no idea…"

Esther realised that Sherlock was in that place where anger was almost tipping over hitting something or crying. Fight or flight- both conflicted. The body's need to deal with the emotional overload in a socially acceptable way? Maybe, or the start of losing control. She didn't want to push him that far. Quietly, but firmly, she said, "Sherlock. Sit down, _now_. Tell me why you think I am wrong. I am listening."

For a moment, nothing happened. A visible shudder ran through his body, and she thought she'd lost him to a sensory storm. But, from somewhere he found the wherewithal to settle himself. After a few controlled breaths, he stalked away from the window and sank back down into the chair, putting his elbows on his knees. Holding his bowed head in his hands, the mass of dark wavy hair obscured his face as he kept his eyes on the floor. She accepted that; it was a way for him to limit the sensory inputs. When he fisted his hands in the curls and pulled, she knew he was using pain to regain his focus. She waited.

"Why are you even here?" It was said quietly but with a ferocity that startled.

"I'm here to help you. If you can understand why you are angry, then perhaps something can be done. If not, then we can work on channelling your anger into something more useful."

"That's what the clinic doctors are here for. Why _you_?"

Esther considered the perceptiveness of the question, and knew she had to answer honestly. "Because you and I have history _._ We don't have to start over. I know you, and you know me. That should give us something concrete to build on. I know what you've been through. I understand your sensory issues. You don't have to explain your family history to me. For a new person, all those things would be barriers to establishing a relationship of trust. You'd use those barriers to hide behind. But, you know I won't let you. You can trust me on that."

A flat monotone reply aimed at the floor, "You think I trust you."

"Do you have any reason _not_ to trust me?"

He pushed himself back into a sitting position and looked at her briefly. "You hold at least one of the keys that keep me locked in here. Do you think I'm an idiot? I ask what you want from me, and instead of telling me, we're playing word games. And you still think I should trust you."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because together we can use that iron to make a key that will unlock the door to put you on the other side of it."

"Do you _really_ believe that? My brother doesn't."

"How do you know? Talked to him recently, have you?"

He shook his head, "I don't need to. He put me in here in the first place, against my will, and wants to keep me here forever."

"He hasn't said that to you or to me, or to anyone. Quite the opposite, in fact. Instead of assuming the worst, it might be more helpful to see things from a different angle. Try to imagine another reason why he might have wanted to find you."

He snorted, sitting back in the chair now, his eyes conveying scorn. "Mycroft will dress it up. Being shut away in here, he can say I am _safe._ That means I can do him and his ambitions no harm. I told him to disown me; I will change my name- anything to get away. He says no, and locks me in here. Malice of forethought, Doctor Cohen, and he's made you his accomplice."

She kept her own body position open, neutral, rather than respond to his accusation. "Sherlock, use that brain of yours. If he wanted you in here for good, then he wouldn't have insisted on _me_ being involved. He would have relied on you being unwilling to share with anyone else what I already know about you. Maybe you need to consider an alternative view, that he asked me to get involved so we could get you out of here faster than you would with a strange doctor. Stop making judgments like that when you don't have all the facts. If you don't take my word for it, then ask him yourself."

He shook his head, "I don't need to. To him, I'm a homeless junkie who is willing to resort to anything to maintain a drug habit. A deep embarrassment to him and the family name, a drag anchor on his promotion prospects because I am a security risk. He justifies this imprisonment as 'keeping me safe', but it's an excuse to lock me up unless I conform to his definition of what is acceptable behaviour."

He was clearly unable or unwilling to break free from the negative loop that made his brother into the villain. She tried again to break through. "Before you draw that conclusion, you have to ask him. That's only fair. In the meantime, it matters less what you think Mycroft's motivations are than what you think about yourself. Do _you_ think you are a homeless junkie who can't be trusted to be independent? How would you prefer to describe what happened to you?"

"Before I ended up in here? I was living a life of my own design. It certainly doesn't fulfil his expectations of what I should do, but I don't care. It should be my choice, not his."

She had to try to break him free from the never-ending loop that brought him back to his brother. Esther decided to try to ground the discussion in something concrete. "Was it your choice to run away from Robert McGarry's when he died? Or was it just shock?"

He snorted. "Another example of your assumptions. Is that what people think? That somehow the finding him dead traumatised me? Shocked me into doing something crazy?" He shook his head. "The man died in his sleep. Not exactly earth shattering. At first, I thought it rather inconvenient of him, given that he was supposed to be driving me up to Cambridge. Then I realised that no one knew he was dead apart from me. It meant that for the first time in my life, I was not surrounded by people who were telling me what to do. I did not have to do what was expected of me."

"And what was that?"

"No doubt, Mycroft would have preferred me to call someone to 'rescue' me. And then they would put me back on the treadmill, heading off to university like a good little boy, doing what I was told to do."

"So, what made you think that wasn't the right thing to do?"

Very quietly, almost reverentially, Sherlock said, "I wasn't running _away_ from something; I was running _toward_ freedom."

"And how was that for you?"

He smirked. "Better than you can possibly imagine. That's what makes me so _angry_ \- you've all made assumptions about how awful it must have been." His face took on a disapproving scowl that was an almost perfect rendition of Mycroft. "Such a terrible thing, Sherlock; how could you fall so far as to become homeless and addicted to drugs?"

Sherlock's voice reverted to his own. "It wasn't like that at all. To start with, for the first time since I was two years old, I was _drug free_. For seven weeks I discovered what I was _really_ like when not being force-fed drugs by doctors. No SSRIs, no benzos, no beta blockers, no...nothing. For the first time ever, far from being a drug addict, I was totally clean. It was quite revealing. A lot of what I had always been told was a product of my SPD and being on the Spectrum just disappeared. At worst, the symptoms were no worse than they had been when I was on drugs. _I learned to cope._ "

Esther was shocked. She had assumed that his need to control the panic attacks, the social anxiety, the worst symptoms of his Sensory Processing Disorder would be the reason why he had turned to drugs- a self-medication alternative to what he had been given since childhood. She had also assumed that the need would push him very quickly into drug use- but that was clearly wrong- at least in his mind. She needed to probe this further- it sounded like Sherlock was actually applying CBT on his own without realising it.

"How? What did you do during those weeks when you were clean?"

He stretched, and then stood up. "I need to move. It helps." He started pacing, and then gestured at what he was doing. "This? It's part of it. I realised that keeping active and burning off energy helps. It also tires me out, meaning that I slept better than I had ever done in my life. The thing that was best? I wasn't anxious. Being homeless means I can avoid people, take them only when I am willing and able to. No one looks at you when you are homeless- which suited me just fine. It means I'm not stressed in the way I am when constantly surrounded by people telling me what to do. I enjoy it. Alone is what I am, it's what I prefer. The exhilaration of being in control of my environment for the first time ever? It's like magic. Don't feel up to talking? Don't have to- not for days, if it suited me. And it did, at first. I was free."

She noted his lapses in and out of the present tense. This was a freedom that had not relinquished its hold on him. She wanted to know more. "Did you sleep rough?"

He smirked. "I avoided the shelters, if that's what you mean- too many people, disgusting scents, sounds- all too much. But park benches and dossing down in doorways is for people who don't use their brain. I slept clean, dry and reasonably warm just by using my head to think of places that no one else would. My bolt holes suited me just fine."

Esther realised that was probably the reason why Mycroft and his team of private detectives had been unable to find him for six months. "What did you do to keep yourself occupied during the days? Weren't you bored?"

He shrugged. "At first, just surviving well was enough- finding places to sleep, food to eat and avoiding people all take time. Once I got those down to a routine, then I explored London and observed people. Endlessly entertaining- trying to deduce what people were doing and why. I was never bored."

"Were you lonely?"

He gave her a fleeting sideways glance, using peripheral vision, his face showing some confusion. "Why would I be?"

"Not knowing anyone familiar must have been…odd."

His face hardened. "You assume that the people I know are persons whose company I would seek by choice. I have never done so."

It would be all too tempting for her to diagnose an attachment disorder. If she had not known his childhood as well as she did, then it might have worked to stymie another psychiatrist. "Are you being truthful with that last comment? There was a time you walked half way across southern England to get to your brother at Eton*. You made a choice then. What happened to change that?"

He rolled his eyes. "I was nine years old, and scared my father was going to lock me away in an institution. I mistakenly thought back then that Mycroft would protect me. Half a lifetime later, and now he's the one who has locked me away. So, childish sentiment is proved wrong. Sentiment is pointless. I won't be fooled again."

She wasn't there to praise Mycroft, but she couldn't let Sherlock just erase another fact. "When you were eleven, Mycroft did get you out of an institution that your father had locked you into. Surely that speaks in his favour? Perhaps it would help to reassess his motivations- or at least give him a chance to explain his concerns now."

He didn't answer.

She decided to move the discussion on. "What changed? You say you were drug free but the toxicology report on you read like a pharmaceutical dictionary of banned substances."

He grimaced. "Well, I had to start interacting with people, didn't I? Not my choice, really; blame it on my brother, not me. When Mycroft started looking more aggressively for me, I couldn't go to a concert, a bookstore, not even a library without finding my photo had preceded me. So, because he wouldn't leave me be, I had to go further underground. Did that by dealing with people I didn't really want to deal with. The more I did that, the more anxiety. So, I started trying to find something that would help with that."

Esther nodded. Knowing Sherlock, she had assumed that self-medication was more at the root, rather than thrill seeking. "What worked?"

He shrugged. "Most didn't. Or, at least, didn't work any better than the stuff you lot have been force feeding me for years. There were only a few…" He drifted to a halt, as if the memory of drug taking had pushed out other thoughts. Esther knew this was dangerous territory, but she wanted to get things out on the table- make them topics he was willing to discuss. Without that, no progress would be possible. _The blast furnace- it has to get hot enough to melt the ore._

"So, which ones, and why?"

There was a pause. Then, "it depended on what I needed. If I wanted to….to just _stop_ , turn off the noise, then morphine or diamorphine." He shrugged, trying to make it nonchalant, and resumed pacing.

 _Heroin._ She had been afraid of that. For someone prone to sensory processing disorder, it would be highly attractive. "And?"

"The best was cocaine. It was _amazing_."

This was a different tone of voice, one that whispered of addiction.

He continued, "I think I know now what it means to be _normal,_ to be able to focus and concentrate, despite the stuff coming in. Not to be anxious around other people. To be able to talk and behave without having to think about it. No drug doctors have prescribed comes anywhere near it."

"Both cocaine and heroin can kill you. Both are illegal."

He shrugged again, this time with more conviction. "There is a difference between quantity and quality of life."

"It will be hard to convince people that you are able to leave here if your drug abuse is not stopped."

"Any and every excuse will be used against me." This was said with some resignation.

"Sherlock, the only one keeping you in here is you. If you are willing to work with me to consider alternatives, to be more constructive in your approach to what happens when you are outside, then I will swap that hunk of metal in your pocket for the key that will unlock the door."

He took the iron ore out of his pocket and turned to look at her again, really look at her, seeing her in a way that made her uncomfortable. But she withstood the intense scrutiny; he had to know that she was telling the truth.

Then he broke his gaze and looked at the fist that had formed around the metal in his hand. "You believe what you are saying. But, that's not enough. I need more data. Tell my brother I'd like to talk to him. Then we'll see if your trust in him is even remotely valid."

Esther smiled. _Progress!_

oOo

 **Author's note** : - this next part is set _immediately_ after the _Study in Pink_ , so very early days!

oOo

Lestrade lifted the sheet away from the face of the body. It had been discovered by a vagrant who was cutting through the vacant lot on his way to the night shelter, whose staff had made the call. The shelter employee refused to identify the tramp, saying that he'd left almost as soon as he reported the body. Didn't want to get involved, and they saw no reason to keep him. So the police had no way to know if the tramp had moved or touched the body, no way to eliminate him as a possible suspect.

 _God help us from well-meaning care workers._ They seemed more concerned about the homeless person than the dead body he'd found, which was lying spread-eagled in the open.

Now three hours later, the waste ground was crowded with police. A few temporary lights had been set up, run off of generators, but most of the constables were using torches to comb through the weeds and rubbish for anything as obvious as a murder weapon. They'd have to wait for daylight to get anything more useful.

Greg used his own torch to look more closely at the body. "Male, no ID, no wallet, no personal effects on the body. Dark skinned, so ethnic origins- Pakistani? Or Afghan? Hard to tell."

Sally snorted. "Even if you could tell, Guv, who's to know if he's British born, and immigrant or just a tourist?"

The DI continued, "There doesn't appear to be any blood evident or any blunt trauma injuries. Thirty-ish. The business suit and soft hands say office worker."

Sergeant Donovan nodded. "I agree- and that means we've both been spending too much time listening to the Freak."

The comment raised a snort of agreement from the Detective Inspector. "Don't knock it; being around that brain is bound to rub off on us eventually."

"You're both jumping to conclusions- just as he does. He's a bad influence on you both." The sour criticism emerged from the blue-suited forensic examiner, whose head was bent over a set of footprints that he was measuring, on the other side of the body from where Lestrade and Donovan were standing.

The DI's attention was caught; a taxi's headlights were approaching the yellow tape that blocked off the crime scene from the street, more than a hundred feet away. "Anderson, just keep at it, will you? We don't have long to wait to find out if we're right."

Sherlock exploded out of the cab's passenger door and started toward them without a backward glance. In the dim morning light, Greg could see another man lean forward from the back seat to hand the fare over to the cabbie. When the man exited the cab, the DI realised it was Sherlock's new flatmate, the doctor now quick marching to catch up with Sherlock just as he lifted the tape and came through the gap in the wooden fence.

Sally's snide comment cut across his thoughts. "Oh, look. He's brought his new flatmate again. That's weird. Second time in as many weeks. Think he's grooming the guy to be a disciple in his little death cult?"

"Put a sock in it, Sergeant. The new guy helped Sherlock solve the serial suicides. I don't care if he brings the Queen of Sheba with him, as long as he helps us find a murderer. Nor should you."

The PC guarding the perimeter did nothing to stop the two men; he'd been told that Sherlock was on his way. None of the other uniformed officers glanced up; they were slowly moving across the waste ground in a line, torches shining down to find evidence.

"The Freak and his minder. What are we doing involving civilians?" Anderson muttered, but kept his head down and focused on examining the footprints that he'd found beside the body.

As he came closer, Sherlock didn't look at either Sally or Greg, and it was as if Anderson didn't even exist. The young man's attention was focused solely on the body, as he snapped on his blue forensic gloves. Avoiding the footprints, he crouched down, not giving Anderson any option but to move aside. Watson came up to Lestrade a little awkwardly, as if unsure whether he was welcome or not.

Sally's arms crossed her arms, looking disapprovingly at her boss. "I see that his social skills have not improved, despite sharing a flat with a normal human being."

The doctor gave her a look that was half way between annoyed and cautious. "Good morning?"

Greg shook his head. "Not for this man, it isn't." In a louder voice, he called out, "Sherlock, I need a cause and time of death if you can manage it before the bloody ME gets here. He's held up somewhere in traffic, apparently. And any advice about a murder weapon, so I can tell the boys and girls searching the ground what they are actually looking for."

The doctor looked bemused. "What, just like that? You want a solution on a silver platter?"

"Give me a few minutes, Detective Inspector, and I just might be able to oblige." It was said in a cocksure baritone, as Sherlock juggled his pocket magnifier out of his pocket at the same time as switching on his mini-maglite torch.

Anderson muttered as he took another series of photographs, the flash letting off a stream of little explosions of bright light that made Sherlock flinch.

The Detective Inspector came closer to watch Sherlock pull the sheet further down and unbutton the dirty white shirt, to reveal a series of livid red marks near the neck and upper chest. The DI wasn't a pathologist, but even he knew a burn when he saw it. Some of the skin was actually charred and blackened, crispy and torn on the edges, as if it were burnt paper.

Greg leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and said quietly, "Going to make a habit of this, are you? Inviting other people onto my crime scenes?"

"Yes. Now shut up and let me work."

Greg noticed that the doctor wasn't put off by the conversation. As soon as he stepped back, Watson took his place, peering over Sherlock's shoulder who was using his pocket magnifier to look more closely.

"Fascinating."

Sherlock's curiosity was now fully engaged, to the point where Greg realised that the man didn't care that he was putting his knee down on the ground, soaking it with mud. It had rained heavily last night, and the patch of waste ground behind the wooden hoarding was a morass of wet rubbish and weeds.

Donovan stifled a snort, distracting Greg from the body.

"What?"

She sniggered. "Any minute now, he's going to say, ' _It's not logical_.' "

Lestrade groaned. "Been watching too many _Star Trek_ reruns, Sergeant?"

Sherlock looked up at their exchange, looking confused. "I don't understand. For once, Sergeant Donovan is right. It _isn't_ logical. Burns like these are highly unusual; wouldn't you agree, Doctor Watson?"

John moved over to the other side of the body so he could look more closely. He started to reach his left hand toward, and then stopped. Sherlock pulled a second pair of gloves out of his pocket and handed them over, saying quietly, "Next time, come prepared."

Watson pulled the gloves on with the speed that Greg would expect from a medical professional. A moment later he was probing the burns with a finger. "I've never seen burns like this."

Sally rolled her eyes. "Well, surprise, surprise; most doctors haven't seen murdered bodies."

Her sarcasm made Watson look up sharply. "I was an army trauma surgeon serving in Afghanistan. I've seen burns from high explosives and shrapnel that would turn your stomach, Sergeant. And more dead bodies than you've ever investigated, that's for sure."

Sherlock responded before Sally could. "These are not burns from an explosion."

"No." Watson turned back to the taller man, who had closed the pocket magnifier shut with a snap, taken his Maglite in his teeth, and was now fishing in his inside coat pocket for a soft leather roll of tools.

"May I?" The flatmate gently took the torch away from Sherlock and went over to the other side of the body, holding the torch to shine on the body. Greg watched as Sherlock withdrew a pair of tweezers, and reached into one of the wounds, pulling aside the blackened skin.

"OH!" It was an exclamation of surprise that made Greg lean in closer to see if he could identify what had startled Sherlock.

Very gently, Sherlock pulled something tiny out of the wound and held it to up in the light.

Lestrade saw an odd sort of droplet shaped form.

"Metal." This was breathed in a baritone tinged with an almost ecstatic awe.

"John, what does this look like to you?" Sherlock shoved it right in front of the doctor's nose.

"Um…don't know. It's sort of a squiggle, but with one end a bit bigger than the other?"

Lestrade snorted and pointedly opened a small plastic evidence bag. Almost reluctantly, Sherlock dropped it in, muttering "I need to get that to the lab at Barts; don't send it into that useless bunch of bureaucrats you call the Forensic Service."

"I heard that." Anderson's whine took on a belligerent quality. "Chain of custody, Holmes. You can't just play with the toys when they amuse you. We professionals have to run trials, you know, and your meddling compromises the evidence." He slapped his camera back into its case, and came closer to watch what Sherlock was doing, suspicion evident in his posture.

Sherlock did not deign to reply. He just bent over the body again, poking the tweezers into another wound, this one slightly longer, on the side of the neck. Depositing another blob of metal into a plastic bag of his own, he sniffed. "Lestrade, there is plenty of this to go around. In fact, prepare to be really surprised."

He glanced across the body. "What do you smell, John?"

"Charred flesh. Burnt blood." The doctor had a haunted look on his face. "It's something I've smelled before."

"Not quite. This time, it's not a war zone, and the murder weapon is not an armament." Sherlock took a firm hold of the body's jaw and opened the mouth, pushing the red and swollen lips back with his fingers.

"Eeuw- what's _THAT_?" Sally was now looking over Greg's shoulder and her disgust was mirrored on the face of the DI. Even the doctor looked startled.

Sherlock was the only one smiling, and the expression grew into one of positive delight as he peered at the grey metal which had filled the man's mouth, submerging his blackened teeth.

"That, Sergeant Donovan, is the murder weapon. Someone poured molten metal into his mouth and throat. If he was alive at the time, it would have been an excruciating death, burned and suffocated simultaneously. The heat of the molten metal would have eaten right through the oesophagus and entered his chest cavity. It would have vapourised blood, tissue and burned bone on its way. Quite remarkable."

John was nodding. "At least it would be quick. The damage to the heart would be fatal very fast …but, I don't understand why the lips weren't totally blackened, too."

Sherlock lifted one of the torn lips. "See that mark there?" John peered in.

"Oh…I get it."

Lestrade grunted, "Well, I don't, so explain it, Sherlock."

"A cheek retractor. The murderer used a medical device to keep the cheeks and lips free. He _wanted_ to be able to close the mouth back over, once the molten iron cooled enough." Sherlock let go of the lip and contemplated the body thoughtfully.

"Molten metal? Poured down a man's throat? How would someone be able to do that? _Why?_ " Lestrade tried but failed to keep the rising incredulity out of his voice. He'd seen a lot of horribly brutal murders, revenge killings where mutilation featured heavily- but this had to be one of the oddest he'd ever run across.

Sherlock did not reply, but leaned forward again, moving his attention onto the closed eyes. He used the tweezers again to grip the lid on the man's right eye. The four people watched in morbid fascination as the skin of the lid seemed to catch for a moment, and then opened.

There was a shocked silence. Instead of an eyeball, there was a metal orb in the socket.

" _Bloody hell._ What's that?" Letrade managed to keep his voice down, but the horror was still here.

Sherlock was positively beaming. "That, Detective Inspector, is cast iron- molten metal poured into a mould to leave us a message. All we have to do is figure out how to translate it." He sat back on his heels and then stood in one graceful movement. "Transport the body to Barts' mortuary. I have an entertaining day's work ahead." He snapped his gloves off and stuffed them into a pocket, before striding off to where the taxi was still waiting.

Five hours later, Lestrade found himself leaning across the mortuary table and arguing with Sherlock. "Slow down and explain it for me again. I'm not a blacksmith." He was really struggling to make sense of what he'd just been told.

Sherlock shifted his body weight, driven to movement by impatience. "The body has three _different_ forms of iron. _One_ \- the eyeballs are _cast_ iron- made elsewhere and then inserted after death, when the original equipment was removed by the murderer. Two- the burns were caused by molten iron. Initial chemical analysis I did upstairs in Stamford's lab shows it to be _pig_ iron made in a blast furnace. But the really _interesting_ discovery is his stomach contents- the _third_ form." He whirled around, grabbed a metal autopsy organ dish and thrust it under Lestrade's nose.

The DI recoiled from the scent of bile and blood.

Sherlock smirked. "Don't be a wimp; you've seen worse on a Friday night pub floor." He poked with his gloved finger in the tray and then raised in triumph a grey lump. "Behold, _sponge_ iron!"

"He had weird eating habits? What does that _mean_?"

Sherlock slapped the dish down on the autopsy table and walked away, muttering. "I am surrounded by idiots."

Molly Hooper was stripping off her gloves and giving Greg a smile of sympathy, but it was the new flatmate who came to his rescue. "Sherlock, just slow down. A little less science and a little more plain English, please."

"Really? How much more simple does it have to be?"

"Why does it matter that there are three forms of iron?"

Sherlock sighed, somewhat histrionically. "Sponge iron is direct reduced – produced using natural gas or gas from coal. You can make it in charcoal ovens or oxygen furnaces- think of a kiln, Lestrade. It's _better_ than pig iron, especially when used to make cast iron or steel."

"That doesn't explain a bloody thing, Sherlock." Lestrade's temper was now sorely tested. He'd been up since the middle of the night on this case, and was no closer to figuring out who the victim was, who killed him or why.

Sherlock just threw his hands up in dismay. "It's obvious, Lestrade, to anyone with a grey cell."

"Alright, calm down you two." John stepped between the two men, trying to soothe ruffled feathers.

Sherlock stalked off, then stopped. Facing the wall, he let loose. "The man was killed by someone who understands iron manufacturing- most probably a skilled process metallurgist- and the fact that three different forms of iron were used is conclusive."

The DI looked askance. "Of what? Which of the three killed him? I need a cause of death, Sherlock, not to mention a _why_ and a _who_."

"You really need an idiot's guide to the industrial revolution? Okay- here goes: pig iron is formed by melting iron with charcoal and limestone, under pressure. What results is iron with a very high carbon content- and that makes it brittle, but hot as hell when it's made. No one manufacturers it on its own, except as a stepping stone to the next stage. The fact that it is pig iron is important- part of the message. Refine this stuff further, and it becomes wrought iron, cast iron- or when it's blended with alloys- steel. You can make pig iron in a back garden DIY blast furnace. It's your murder weapon."

Lestrade puffed out his cheeks, trying to imagine the scene of a madman trying to pour molten metal on a back patio. "So, did the victim just sit there and let the murderer pour this stuff down his throat?"

"Of course not." Sherlock had turned and folded his arms across his chest. "Both Doctors Watson and Hooper agree with me that the autopsy shows he was either unconscious or dead when the metal was poured into his mouth. But there's more." He lifted the pan that contained two metal orbs. "These are _cast_ iron- so two stages further on from _pig_ iron, and these have been worked- and by a master craftsman."

He marched back over to the autopsy table. Withdrawing one of the metal eyeballs from the tray with the pathologist's tools, he held it up so Lestrade and John could see it. The eyeball was anatomically perfect, and the pupil, lens and iris were clearly evident.

Sherlock's appreciation was clear as he contemplated the eyeball. "Cast from life, I would say- which makes this the work of an artist rather than a backyard bodger."

"In your humble opinion," growled Lestrade.

Sherlock shot him a peeved look. "It takes _skill_ to produce the original artwork, cast a mould and then pour metal. Just look- it's _polished._ "

John was looking as puzzled as Lestrade felt. The short man's eyes followed Sherlock as he whirled away to continue pacing. John said tentatively, "So, you're saying that the murderer first feeds the victim iron pellets, then knocks him out, then pours the hot metal into his mouth, removes the guy's eyeballs and replaces them with a pair he made earlier?" The way he said it made it sound almost ridiculous, but this time Sherlock didn't reply with a caustic comment.

Lestrade just threw up his hands. "Why the bleeding hell would anyone go to such _trouble_?"

Sherlock kept pacing, his hands steepled under his chin, eyes unfocussed. He was muttering, "Come on, _come on._ "

John was watching him. Behind Greg, Molly took photos of the body, the mouth and orbital sockets now empty of their metal.

When a few moments later the door of the mortuary opened, Sherlock's pacing suddenly altered course, and he rushed to the young woman who had come through. "At last! What took you so long?" He ripped the sheets of paper out of her hands, and spun away.

She was in her mid-twenties, wearing a white lab coat, and looked more than a little startled at Sherlock's behaviour, "Um… the last of the three samples was a bit tricky…" Then she caught sight of the body on the table. "What's _that?!"_

Sherlock was scanning the data on the first sheet. "The source of the samples."

Greg snapped, "Sherlock, I told you before that Doctor Stamford's not keen on you conning his graduate students into helping with your work. Just not on…" He had reached the poor woman's side and took her elbow to gently steer her away from the body, back towards the door and safety.

"You're the one who wanted the answers quickly. Not my problem." He tossed the first sheet over his shoulder, letting it flutter to the floor. The flatmate bent to scoop it up and then started reading. When the second sheet was flung away, he managed to catch it before it hit the floor.

Lestrade watched the pair of them. "Well?"

Watson looked up and shrugged his shoulders, then showed Greg the sheet. It was some sort of scientific analysis but he couldn't make any sense of the chemical formulae. Annoyed, he tried again. "Sherlock?!"

"Just wait." Sherlock was now on the fourth sheet.

The man was half way down the sixth sheet when the moment that Lestrade had been waiting for finally happened.

"OH!"

Sherlock flew to the PC on the desk at the back of the mortuary, nearly knocking the pathologist over. "Sorry, sorry. She blushed furiously as she stepped out of his way to let him rush by. Sherlock was already typing something into the browser at a blistering pace before she could utter her third "sorry."

"Chair."

In response to the peremptory baritone command, Molly grabbed the chair, sliding it over and Sherlock started sitting on it while it was still in motion, keeping his eyes fixed on the page of type that came up in response to his typing.

Lestrade exchanged glances with the doctor, who shrugged.

" _YES_!" It was a cry of triumph.

Sherlock turned to the three of them with a smirk. "The cast iron of the eyes is made by an American company, the pig iron is made in Iran, and the sponge iron in India. The three forms of iron say it all, Lestrade. The full chemical assays are the proof I needed. This is industrial warfare between Iran, India, and the USA. This poor foot soldier is just the latest casualty."

Greg closed his eyes in frustration.

Molly said in a small voice, "I don't understand."

The flatmate said quietly, "Sherlock, a little more translation is needed. Think of it in a way that explains it to people who don't have a chemistry degree."

Eyes still closed, Greg heard Sherlock sigh.

"Lestrade, just ask one of your minions to check the delegate list of the Fourth Annual International Iron and Steel Conference, taking place at the QEII Centre in Westminster. This is one of their delegates and he works at Zagros Steel Company- Iran's largest producer of pig iron. It's just been privatised, with 49% of the government's shares being offered for sale- and some European investors are slipping in the back way, hoping the Americans won't notice. That's despite it being under US sanctions against Iran that prohibit investing in the iron and steel industry."

Greg opened his eyes in disbelief. "I don't have the faintest idea why you could get that fact out of a bunch of chemical formulae, but let's say you're right. Hard to believe it, but if you are right, then what does it _mean_? Any ideas about the killer?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obvious- the murderer is going to be another delegate, most likely working at JSPL, that's short for Jindal Steel & Power- an Indian company that just happens to be the owner of the world's largest coal-based sponge iron plant. JSPL has been rated as the second highest value creator in the world by the Boston Consulting Group- a real success story. But, my guess is that he'll have had help- the eyes tell you that. Look for an American delegate as an accomplice."

The three of them needed more than a few seconds to catch up with the content of what had just been said at breakneck speed, in a single breath.

"How the _hell_ do you get from a couple of lumps of iron to all of that?!" Greg's frustration boiled over.

Sherlock reacted with a smirk of superiority. "Follow the money. American investors are pouring money into the Bombay stock market, snapping up shares in JSPL which has just set up a big iron foundry in Oman- across the Straits of Hormuz from Iran- backed by American money. This is an American sponsored killing."

His incredulity had been stretched to its limits. Greg whispered, "if you're just making this up…"

"Chemistry doesn't _lie_ , Lestrade. The analysis shows the processes of manufacture- and the companies' product is _traceable_. This body is designed to leave a message. The _stomach_ is full of India's product, feeding the American's appetite, the _mouth_ is being stopped by the Iran's s own iron product and the _eyes_ are the cast iron steel- it's the American saying to Iran "I see you!" trying to bust sanctions. I'll bet photos were taken and are being secretly circulated to the European delegates to the conference as a not very subtle warning. The iron is symbolic, Lestrade." He drew breath and then concluded, rather smugly, "think of this as gang-warfare on a global scale."

"Amazing."

Lestrade looked back at the doctor who had uttered the word. "Yep, sounds crazy enough to be true. We'll go round up the suspects." He headed out the door.

Sherlock picked up the eyeball. "I think I'm going to take one as a souvenir."

"Won't Anderson throw a fit?"

"That's part of the attraction." He slipped it into his pocket.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iron's propensity to rust is well known; the oxidisation process referred to by the US Pentagon as "the pervasive menace" because it destroys cars, fells bridges, sinks ships, sparks house fires, and nearly brought down the Statue of Liberty. Rust costs America more than $400 billion per year—more than all other natural disasters combined. Rust's destructive capabilities hold particular interest to Sherlock.

"Stop staring."

"I'm _not_ staring _."_

If there was the slightest tinge of defensiveness in that comment by Sherlock, John chose to ignore it. "Yes, you are. It's putting me off." John hit the backspace key to delete the _L_ , _O_ and the _K_. No matter how hard he tried, he kept mistyping _Agrikoliades_. He resumed his hunt for the _i_.

"I'm not staring. I'm…" There was a distinct pause, then a decisive "…I'm admiring the landscape." The _p_ in the last syllable came out in a clear pop.

That emphasis made John look up in surprise. "What's that mean?" He looked around behind him and saw just the kitchen- a mess of test tubes and lab equipment, as always, and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Lunch had been take-away Indian, ordered by John, and picked at by Sherlock.

He didn't answer the question, but he didn't stop staring at John. Sherlock was holding his violin in his left hand, fingers moving in some form of silent practice across the strings. He'd been doing it for the past half hour, after explaining it as necessary to stretch the tendons and re-build his callouses. After two years of not playing, both were needed if he was going to resume properly.

"Care to illuminate me, oh enlightened one?" John's sarcasm was gentle. In truth, he was pleased to see even the slightest trace of humour in Sherlock. It was early days- only three weeks ago, they'd all left Hartswood Manor in a rather unsettled state, to say the least. The two of them were still dancing around each other very, very carefully.

Ignoring John's question, Sherlock asked one of his own. "Why didn't you improve your typing while I was gone?"

John looked back at the screen. "No reason to do so; I stopped the blog."

"Then why restart it?"

"Popular demand" he smirked. "I've been getting fan mail asking me to explain what you're up to. But, Mary says the speed of my typing drives her crazy, so she told me to do it over here."

"Your hunt and peck is enough to drive _anyone_ crazy."

"Well, that's alright then if I do it here, because you're already more than half way around the bend. My typing can't make any difference." He smirked, keeping his eyes on the keyboard. _Where the hell is the_ d?

When the silence lengthened, he looked up to see if he'd overstepped the mark. John was relieved to see the ghost of a smile of Sherlock's face. Emboldened, he tried again. "Landscape?"

Sherlock gestured with his right hand vaguely in John's direction. "You. In the habitat of Baker Street you were once a common feature, but now you are an endangered species. When you're here now, I am apt to notice. Novelty value and all that."

John smirked as he resumed typing. "You used to not notice my absences; remember when I went to Dublin for two days and you didn't even realise it?" _Of course, he remembers. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes._ Still, it felt good to tease.

"What are you going to title this blog post?"

"I've called it "The Naval Treatise" – the plot was so bloody complicated, it's taking me forever to explain it."

Sherlock sniffed. "Will you let me see it to correct the inevitable errors?"

John pursed his lips. "No. You have your own blog." He stopped typing, and looked up. "Have you re-started _The Science of Deduction_?"

A shake of the head, "I can't be bothered. If I want to write something now, I'd rather submit it to an academic journal."

John sniggered. "Fangirls getting to you, then?"

Sherlock glowered. "Their inane comments are tedious. I disabled the function."

Whatever John might have said was forgotten, as they both heard the sound of the front door to 221b being opened.

"Mrs Hudson?" John listened but he didn't think it was her characteristic tread on the stairs. _Someone's in a hurry._

Sherlock sat up and thrust his violin onto the side table, suddenly on edge. "Not her. Two people- men." John was suddenly reminded, if he had needed reminding, that his friend had just spent two years tearing apart a criminal network. Senses fully extended, Sherlock was already half way up into a fighting stance when he suddenly relaxed and flopped back down into the chair; "…one of whom is Lestrade."

John hadn't seen the Detective Inspector since before Christmas. He knew that Lestrade had seen Sherlock through the worst of withdrawal at Hartswood*, and felt aggrieved that it had been him instead of John who had been allowed to help*. The doctor took a deep breath. _Water under the bridge._ John knew that he was the one now who was helping Sherlock, and he chose to focus on that. It wasn't exactly easy, juggling the demands of a full-time job, living with Mary and keeping an eye on Sherlock's sobriety and state of mind. But, texts, after work visits, time at the weekends and the occasional day off had put him back in contact. Mary was being patient, willing to share with Sherlock his meagre time off; "do it, love; it's good for you both." John was growing even more fond of her as time progressed.

He was in two minds about Greg coming to Baker Street, because that might mean a case. John just hoped it wouldn't demand too much of Sherlock. His friend's mood was still volatile; so far, he was sticking to his commitment to twice-weekly EMDR therapy sessions, but John didn't want him to use the excuse of a case to avoid them. To keep Sherlock focused, John had agreed to his own sessions with Diane Goodliffe, and come to Baker Street once a week for those sessions. He was willing to endure those, just to see a steady improvement in Sherlock.

On the other hand, John also knew that what Sherlock needed more than anything right now was something to occupy that quicksilver mind. There was only so much enforced inactivity that Sherlock was willing to endure, and he'd past that stage more than two weeks ago. On his own, Sherlock would be vulnerable to the urges that had driven him to resume his drug habits before Christmas. That, in part, was the real reason why John had told Mary that he was going to spend his day off with Sherlock- he was worried what Sherlock might get up to if left on his own for much longer.

By the time Lestrade stepped into the sitting room, John had saved the draft blog text and closed his laptop. The DI caught sight of John and beamed. "Brilliant- _both_ of you. Couldn't be better."

The man following in his wake hung back a bit, looking around the room with some consternation. John knew that many people were taken aback the first time they laid eyes on Sherlock's flat- a more charitable person might dismiss the décor as idiosyncratic, but the room could be seen as startlingly chaotic and cluttered if you were expecting something professional. The look on the man's face put him firmly in the latter camp of horrified. In his mid-forties and rather overweight, he wore a suit and tie under a sensible woollen coat, and carried a leather briefcase. His round face was flushed from the effort of climbing the stairs.

"Detective Inspector, have you come bearing gifts?" Sherlock's rich baritone dragged the attention of the unknown man to him in an instant.

Lestrade looked a little confused. "Um, no. You don't do Christmas, and as for birthdays, well, I know better."

"If you've brought a _client_ , that's the best gift of all."

Greg nodded rather tentatively. "Maybe, but only if you're ready, Sherlock. Are you?"

"I'm _fine_." This was said through clenched teeth, irritation barely held in check.

Lestrade looked over to John, seeking confirmation. They both knew what a rough ride Sherlock had been through since the return. John was torn, but then gave a tiny nod, knowing that it would irritate the hell out of his friend to have been asked for a second opinion.

Sherlock glowered at John. "It's been almost _five_ weeks since I solved the shipping scam. If I wait any longer, my brain is going to start rusting. Lestrade, if you have a good case, then out with it. You have _my_ permission."

The DI frowned at the sudden tension between the two, but then slowly nodded. "This is Willem Tuinstra. He's from the International Maritime Organisation. He came to me, because of all the press stuff on the _Agrikoliades_ case. But, it's not my area; he really needs you."

John got up and pulled two chairs out from the table and positioned them facing the fireplace. "As long as this one doesn't involve Sherlock taking a swim in the Thames whilst being shot at*, then let's hear your story. Then _we_ can decide if it is do-able. Take a seat, we're all ears." He returned to his own chair across from Sherlock. He studiously avoided looking at his friend, knowing that his use of the "we" would have put a rather patrician nose seriously out of joint.

The DI remained standing, hands on the back of the chair, watching Sherlock's reaction to John's quiet assertion of authority. Oblivious to the silent exchange going on, the suited man sat, primly putting his briefcase on his lap. He was still a little red-faced from the rapid ascent.

Once he'd caught his breath, the man started. "I apologise for not calling ahead or making an appointment. We tried to contact you by email before Christmas, but received no reply." Tuinstra's English had a trace of an accent, but to John's ear, it wasn't clear where he was from. "I've been told by others that a direct approach is likely to be ignored these days. You are something of a celebrity, Mister Holmes, and getting your attention is not simple. I thought the Detective Inspector might be what you English call a willing go-between."

Sherlock was scrutinising him carefully. "Mister Tuinstra, what does a Dutchman who just happens to be the IMO's head of Maritime Criminal Investigation Training want from me?" This was delivered in an almost silky tone, with a manufactured smile that John knew to be one used only for clients.

"Good, good. You know something of my work then?"

"Not in the slightest, but I can deduce enough from you now to know that you are out of your depth."

That brought a pained look to the man's bland face. "J _a_. Embarrassing to admit. But, yes. You are right. I've just returned from NATO's Maritime Interdiction Operational Training Centre in Crete. We are trying to deal with the current problem of sea-born immigration. We exchanged estimates from coastal authorities and information from confirmed interdictions, and now confirm that more than two hundred thousand illegals crossed the Mediterranean last year. This migration by sea is done in unsafe vessels, organised by people who trade and traffic the lives of others. And it is likely to increase this coming year- maybe even double."

Sherlock's artificial smile withered. "Not my area." He shot a disappointed look at Lestrade. "And the Detective Inspector was misleading you if he told you I would be in the slightest bit interested."

"Just hold your fire, Sherlock. Let the man finish." Greg crossed his arms across his chest and stared him down.

Flustered by the reception he had received, Tuinstra stammered a bit. "You know this is a crime, yes? There is a legal framework in place to make this a criminal offence – the Protocol Against the Smuggling of Migrants by Land, Sea and Air is an annex to the UN Convention against Transnational Organized Crime. You _investigate_ crimes."

Sherlock scowled. "Yes, but I don't have a navy or a coast guard, so I fail to see the relevance of this problem to me. I am sorry you have wasted your journey. "

"Wait, wait- you must let me explain. Something is happening that is puzzling." Tuinstra mopped his brow.

Crossing his right leg across his left knee, in a flat, slightly bored tone, Sherlock replied, "If you must, then do so, quickly. I have a low threshold of patience these days."

John tried to suppress a smirk. _These_ _days?_

"The boats come from North Africa. The collapse of civil authority there draws criminals like a magnet. Most of the little fishing boats are decrepit. Filled to the gunwales with illegals and just make it as far as international waters, before they make their May Day call for help. The pilots leave before the EU ships can get there- on fast small craft that go back to the coast."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I do read the newspaper."

" _Ja, natuurlijk,_ but you won't have read about this." He rummaged in his briefcase and drew out some photos, thrusting them towards Sherlock, who did not bother to move.

John got up to collect the photos and bring them to Sherlock, scanning them quickly before handing them over.

"Three ships, Mister Holmes, and these were good vessels, with proper crew, not the broken down hulks usually used to carry refugees and illegals. All burning, like this."

The grainy and blurred photos were taken in daylight from a considerable height- John wondered if they were satellite images. The smoke plumes obscured most of the ship in two of the photos, but the third showed a part of the hull and fierce flames.

"It happens very fast. No call, but satellite photos show that in each case the whole ship goes down in a matter of moments after the fire breaks out. We can't understand it. There is no explosion. As soon as the smoke was noticed on the camera, then less than ten minutes after the smoke starts, they are gone. Marine patrols on the scene several hours later find floating bodies- we think of crew from their clothing and some illegals- women and children- some burned horribly, a few unburnt but drowned- no survivors. No life jackets, or life rafts. The bodies have no papers, no fingerprints on records. The wrecks are at the bottom of the sea, too deep to be worth salvaging."

"These ships are not registered." Sherlock made it a statement, not a question.

The official shook his head. "No. All legitimate marine traffic is now live tracked, but it has to be registered. None of these were. No GPS signal; we only caught these because of the smoke showing up on satellite. There might be more disasters we don't know about, if they happened at night."

Sherlock was squinting at the third photo. "Low in the water." He waved his hand vaguely toward the table between the windows; "John."

John got up and rummaged about amongst the books, newspapers and general debris on the table to find the magnifying glass, and handed it to Sherlock, who started shuffling through the images. There was a pause, then "The smoke isn't enough- not oil or fuel that's burning. And not enough to destroy the ship at this stage, so not the reason they sink." It was as if he was talking to himself. Then a firm question-"How many bodies?"

"Not anywhere near as many as we have found on other boats that call for help. None of these three did so. Nothing, no SOS call. It makes no sense." He sounded frustrated.

Sherlock flipped through the photos, then used the magnifying glass to peer closely at the third image. "Are there any photos that identify the ships by name?"

Tuinstra shook his head. "No, satellites only see from the top." He hovered his hand over his briefcase, pointing downwards to mimic the angle. "All three are steaming towards the east, but this may be co-incidence. Meneer Holmes, there is criminal activity going on, but we don't know what it is, who the victims are, who the murderer is. We don't know why the ships go down so fast, without proper evacuations. No claims have been made for insurance, which would have been done if these were attempts to scuttle the ships. But there is no other explanation for the speed of the sinking."

Sherlock put the photos down and sat back in the chair. Elbows on the sides of the chair, he put his hands together under his chin and shut his eyes. "Let me think."

Tuinstra looked a little startled at Lestrade.

John gave him a reassuring smile. "Can I fix you both a cup of tea? You'd best both make yourselves comfortable; this could take a while.

The next few minutes were taken up by the process of making tea and handing the mugs around. John did not bother putting one out for Sherlock, who had not moved a muscle. Tuinstra sipped his tea, but kept one eye on Sherlock.

Eventually, the Dutchman turned to Lestrade and asked quietly. "He is..okay? Has he fallen asleep?"

Before John could answer the question, Sherlock suddenly came back to life.

"LISCO." There was certainty in the baritone.

"I beg pardon?" The Dutchman looked confused.

"Libyan Iron and Steel Company. Based in Misrata. They are the criminals…and the victims for that matter. Or at least the crew and passengers are; I expect the so-called illegal immigrant bodies you recovered are actually wealthy Libyan citizens paying a large premium to try to escape the civil war- not the usual sort of sub-Saharan traffic going across in rowboats to Lampadusa."

Lestrade and John looked at each other, over the head of the client.

Sherlock leaned forward to hand back the photos to the startled IMO official.

Tuinstra was struggling to understand, and he seemed embarrassed as he took the photos back. "Please, Meneer Holmes, I need to understand what you are saying. What does this company have to do with the fires at sea?"

Sherlock gave a tiny sigh. ""It's really rather obvious. it's about four elements: iron, oxygen, hydrogen and nitrogen, and what happens when they come together. Do it the right way, and things work, they stay in balance and all is well. Do it the wrong way and ships sink, people die."

The three other people in the room exchanged confused looks.

Sherlock slapped his hand down on the leather arm of his chair- a gesture of frustration. "Let's start at the beginning, shall we? LISCO is Libya's largest producer of direct reduced iron. The company is based in Misrata, recently the target of airstrikes by forces loyal to the national government based in Tripoli. That's damaged the electricity supply to the plant, so steel making slows down or even stops. The ships are taking the part-processed iron to ports elsewhere – mostly Egypt, by the way, which is turning a blind eye to port of origin. The ships are not registering because LISCO is run by forces opposed to the internationally recognised government. So, it's black market business."

A furrow of concentration began taking shape on the heavy features of the Dutchman, as Sherlock continued, "Misrata port was badly damaged in the civil war after Ghadaffi's downfall- and there's been no money for re-building. Loading conditions that should be followed aren't being followed. Corners are being cut. And you know the risks when direct reduced iron is shipped by sea."

"Oh!" The Dutchman suddenly understood. "Ja, Ja! I get it now. Of course!"

Lestrade started laughing, "Well, I sure the hell don't, so best explain it, Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes. "DR Iron _rusts_. The chemical reaction of oxidisation is exothermic. Bulk cargoes by sea are particularly vulnerable. To ship the stuff safely, the IMO has a code that requires the elimination of 95% of the oxygen in the hold plus an airtight blanket of nitrogen. Then careful monitoring of oxygen and hydrogen levels while at sea. If, as was likely with these three vessels, the iron ore was loaded at a high temperature or humidity, then oxidation starts happening in a hurry. Only if you keep the oxygen out, and the nitrogen intact can you stop the process. Rust is another form of _burning,_ Lestrade; it generates _heat_. The hot iron's rusting process creates pockets of hydrogen between the pellets."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "Once underway, add sea water leaking into the hold because the ships aren't well maintained- that's more oxygen and hydrogen known as H2O by the way. It gets hot enough to separate and the freed oxygen creates more rust, and the problem becomes very real, very fast. It wouldn't explode outright because of the nitrogen layer, but the resulting fire below it in the hold would literally burn a hole in the bottom of the ship and it would sink almost immediately."

John's brow creased as he imagined the sequence. "The poor buggers wouldn't know what hit them."

Sherlock nodded. "If the hold temperature monitors weren't working properly, or weren't being watched because of a skeleton crew, they would only discover the fire moments before the ship sank- not enough time to evacuate properly, leaving them a choice of death by fire or water."

The IMO official looked pained. "This is tragedy."

"No, just basic chemistry. Rather simple. You need to get to work shutting down the businesses that are trying to buy bargain-basement iron ore through illegal shipping. Now you know where to start looking."

Tuinstra stood up. "Thank you, Meneer Holmes. Most helpful." He turned towards the door, with Lestrade in his wake.

Sherlock called out to the departing men. "Detective Inspector; this was a three at best. Your cases will have to be more interesting than this if my brain is not going to rust to the point of spontaneous combustion." He picked up his violin and looked at it, a frown of disappointment clear on his face. He started playing a piece that John had never heard before: mournful and deeply melancholic for a few moments, Then he broke it off with an angry downwards stroke of the bow, making the strings produce a furious screech. He almost flung the violin back in its case and stalked off to his bedroom.

John sighed, pulling his phone out to text Mary that he wouldn't be home any time soon. _It's going to be a long night._

oOo

Sherlock eyed the tiny paper cup and its contents: four tablets- one salmon coloured pill, one capsule with white at one end and green at the other, an oblong beige caplet and then a round blue one. The man who had delivered it stood waiting. The jug of water and the hard clear plastic cup that was nearly full of water sat waiting on the little table on casters, which could be raised so that it would go over the bed, if needed.

It wasn't needed tonight. He was still up, fully dressed and didn't look likely to be heading to bed any time soon.

He knew each pill- what it was, what it was supposed to do, and how it failed to do so when given to him. Fluoxetine was the gel-filled capsule, the SSRI. He hated that one in particular. An anti-depressant used to ease anxiety, it was also supposed to help with the sensory processing issues, but he'd found it to be totally useless at that, too. Perversely, his sensitivity to noise in particular seemed to increase rather than decrease, even though the clinic doctor kept telling him that "isn't possible." What did _he_ know about what was going on in Sherlock's brain?

The pinkish orange tablet with the number ten stamped on it was propranolol hydrochloride; that was also designed to reduce some of the physical issues of anxiety. It was a beta-blocker to slow his heart rate to make him less prone to panic attacks. When he finally started talking again, he'd told the doctor who had prescribed them when he first arrived, "I'm not prone to panic attacks."

"Maybe not, but these made sure you haven't had one yet in here, and will make sure you don't develop them."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at that logic, but was too exhausted to argue. He'd not bothered to talk to any of the hospital doctors; they were all idiots, clearly. If he needed any more proof of that, it was staring up at him from the paper cup.

Zolpidem tartrate was the beige caplet, to help him sleep. It was needed because one of the side effects of beta-blocker was insomnia. _As if I needed help on that score._ Nobody seemed to care that he'd suffered a disrupted sleep cycle all his life. Because he didn't sleep through the night like a so-called normal teenager, then they'd drug him until he did.

The turquoise diazepam was a benzodiazepine- a low dosage, because one of the side effects of fluoxetine was to extend the life of this drug in his body, due to its effect on a liver enzyme needed to metabolise the benzo.

In short, he was being forced to take drugs to control the side-effects of the other drugs he was taking. A circular argument- if he didn't take _any_ of the drugs, he was convinced he'd actually feel better. The whole thing made him angry, but the drugs robbed him of the ability to do anything about the anger. It just sat there, consuming his brain, burning a hole through his mood.

Not taking anything couldn't be worse. He had a dry mouth all the time, was on the edge of nausea constantly. The drugs made him agitated, yet dulled his brain to the point where he couldn't explain what was bothering him. He just drifted through the days, constantly edgy and unbalanced. It was hard to think under the double-edged sword. He'd had to abandon the idea of composing a musical periodic table- it was too complicated for him to be able to concentrate on it. That made him angry, too, and he stared at the pages with his initial scrawls in crayon, with increasing frustration.

Just today he'd found himself counting the number of vowels on the page of the Russian novel he was reading: Dostoyevsky's _Crime and Punishment_. He sympathised with Raskolnikov, who rationalised his intended crime as a form of self-actualisation. But then just when the plot started to thicken, Sherlock realised that he'd spent over an hour on the same page, working through four ratios of vowels to the different consonants he had counted, rather than actually understanding what the words meant. The drugs crossed so many wires in his head that he couldn't think straight. When he tossed the book aside in frustration, the nurse who was delivering his pills asked him why he was upset by the book. He couldn't find the words to explain why he wasn't angry about the book, but what those blasted pills were doing to his mind. So, he didn't answer at all. It was all very, very strange and disconcerting.

 _When I get out of here I should study neuropharmacology_. It might be a rather specialised area of chemistry, but he reckoned he knew enough about drugs by now- both the legal ones and the illegal ones- in terms of their effects on him. But despite his interest, the nurses who delivered the medication couldn't or couldn't talk details with him. Like why the combination of the four was quite so horrible.

Only this morning he raised the topic with Esther Cohen on one of her weekly visits. Mycroft was still willing to pay her for the sessions, because she was the only doctor with whom Sherlock could be bothered to talk.

"Good, I agree. Let's talk about the drugs." Esther Cohen was sitting in the chair opposite Sherlock's.

"Yours or mine?"

She actually smiled at that. "I was thinking about _yours_ – the heroin and cocaine. You said last week that they were self-medication, and we need to explore that."

Sherlock sighed. "Must we?"

"Yes. Both of those substances can kill you."

"So can the drugs prescribed here. Those are what I meant as _yours_ , by the way. "

Her face told him that she wasn't buying that idea. "Heroin and cocaine are Class A drugs, not medicine. They are illegal and addictive."

He sniffed. "Addictive? So are fluoxetine and diazepam. And they are all pharmaceuticals- chemicals used to alter brain chemistry and bodily functions."

"Those two are administered by medical professionals in regulated doses, and you will be tapered off them before leaving here."

He shrugged. "Just another form of withdrawal. I'm told the physical symptoms would be the same- or even worse, if I did it cold turkey. When I tried to fake taking the SSRI, the doctor came in to lecture me that stopping fluoxetine suddenly can lead to hallucinations and suicidal thoughts. I didn't get those when I was withdrawing from cocaine, and I never used heroin to the point where I was addicted, so didn't get the full whack of withdrawal. So, _mine_ are less of a problem than _yours._ I want to cut down the drugs, so you can tell them to start the tapering now."

She looked at him, without answering.

"What?!"

"Sherlock- you are not going to win this little debate. You need to accept that this is the best compromise possible. No one is going to think you taking cocaine or heroin is a "good idea." I agree that the best solution is not to need any drugs at all, but as you currently need medication to manage everyday life, then you will have to take what is prescribed."

"Who says I need medication?"

"Your avoidance behaviour is enough evidence of your need."

Suddenly, he felt exhaustion creeping into his bones like some heavy metal. He just didn't have the energy to argue. But he didn't concede the point, either- not in his head, anyway.

She moved the agenda on. "So, let's look at this from a different angle. You want to reduce the drugs; I agree. But that means you have to show that you can do without them. That means you have to engage with the therapy to help you deal with the pressures of life, so you don't have to rely on medication or resort to illegal drugs.

Dully, he repeated the phrase, "Engage with the therapy. How _dull._ "

Quietly, but firmly, Esther answered, "That means you need to go to the group sessions, and actually talk rather than sitting there looking at the floor."

"I only go so I can get paper and books. I never promised I would _talk_." He wanted to cross his arms and signal his disgust, but couldn't find the energy to throw a full strop.

"You need to. It's part of the process of getting out of here." She sighed, and he heard some frustration in there, too. "Technically speaking, you are experiencing pathological demand avoidance- doing anything to avoid situations that make you anxious. It so happens that those situations are exactly what is needed to get you out of here. Talking to people your own age, co-operating with the doctors here."

" _Catch 22_ \- Joseph Heller. Just read it."

She smiled. "What did you think of it?"

"I'm like Yossarian. The only way I can get out of here is to admit that I am crazy, which I don't think I am, simply because I don't want to live the way you want me to. Only if I admit it, then you won't then let me out, because I have admitted that I am crazy. It's Catch 22- I'm stuck."

She made a face that suggested she didn't agree with his assessment. "Sherlock, when you were at Harrow, you got on well enough with the day-to-day stuff. You will have to show the doctors here that you can cope with normal life now. That means going to meals with the rest of the patients in the unit, rather than hiding in your room. You'll have to spend time in the common room, too. It's called _re-socialisation_ , and everyone has to do it to be discharged. Just think of it as one of the keys needed to recovery. You have to demonstrate that you can interact properly with people your own age. And you need to show that you can engage with the clinical staff here who are trying to help you. That's another key needed to unlock the doors of this place- establishing a working relationship with people in authority without running away or going into meltdown. You'll have to manage when you're at Cambridge, so best get started now."

He gave her his _do-I-care_ look. Finally, he was able to push aside his lethargy enough to say, "You're making assumptions- again. " He tried to put some heat into the words, but even to his ear, his voice seemed flat and disinterested. The session ended inconclusively.

The nurse who had delivered the pills was still standing there. "Come on, mate; get 'em down yeh, and then get in bed. Haven't got all night. There's other patients I need to sort out before lights out."

Sherlock looked up at him, then down at the pills again. The man was an NHS nurse at Barnet Hospital, but he was pulling the Priory's twilight shift of 4pm to midnight in an effort to earn more money, to keep his aged mother in an expensive care home. Angry at being trapped into such a thankless task by his feckless siblings, he tried to hide his smouldering resentment behind an insincere friendliness. Actually, the nurse loathed the Priory patients and their families who had the money needed to pay the private hospital's outrageous day rates. Sherlock wanted to say something, use his deductions to puncture the man's cover and expose his truth. But his brain wouldn't oblige. He was swimming through glue, his thought processes so slow and clumsy.

Finally, anger stirred him into action. He picked up the paper cup and threw the tablets down the back of his throat, took a large gulp of the water and swallowed.

"Right. Let's see the pearly whites- no hiding."

Sherlock glowered at him but opened his mouth to show that he had indeed swallowed the medicine.

The nurse left him in peace. Sherlock undressed and got into bed, just as the lights went out. He lay there looking at the ceiling, waiting for the bed check that would come in the next ten minutes.

Once his door clicked shut behind the carer with his clipboard, Sherlock was on his way to the en-suite bathroom. He'd learned not to use the loo as the receptacle. The night staff were trained to look in when they heard a toilet flushing for exactly this reason. If they caught the inevitable whiff of vomit, then the doctors would be called.

Hands on either side of the small wash basin, Sherlock closed his eyes and rehearsed the day's frustrations. Finally, he unleashed his anger and shoved his right index finger down his throat with a violence that triggered an explosive gag reflex. A few moments later, he turned the cold tap barely on, not enough water pressure to make a noise, but just enough to start dissolving the undigested pills and move what remained of his supper down the drain. By morning, the vomit and the pills would be gone, washed away.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: * For any new reader not getting the asterisk references, this is covered in my story Magpie: One for Sorrow, which is still over on FanFiction. Sherlock's case that John is writing up in the Naval Treatise blog post is covered in my story Devonshire Squires- also over on Fanfiction.


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